Bitching, moaning and beating yourself up cause it feels so good

I don’t mean to sound like I’m bitching here nor do I tell you all of this in hope of some sympathy, money or a piece of ass. They way this life has turned out so far has me looking at every “event” as a story, a story to be told for laughs, tears, understanding. That is the purpose of literature, whatever the hell that is anymore; to strike an emotional chord deep within the human soul.

But people come attracted because they feel we have something in common and that makes us peers, comrades, friends. It is the same reason why Bukowski attracted all the loons; they believed he was just as crazy and drunk as they were (or they wanted to see a man fall to pieces). So they come over to my room or call me on the phone or, thanks to the technology today, instant message me with their rants and bitching.

Everyone expects me to have a good story to tell, but I have already told them so many times they have become lies to me. My life is a work of fiction and so I tell them what is happening in the moment. This results in a pouring of emotion every now and then until I finally shut myself up because I have sickened myself. And I do feel bad, for usually this happens when in a shitty mood and really don’t want to be around people, but that is when people are always around.

Nonetheless, I get out of my rut and walk around, smiling and gay, feeling that if I were to dive off the roof of my building I would float slowly and smoothly, like a feather, to the ground. That is when they knock on my door or ring my phone or cause my computer to go on the fritz. It is always on the worse day of their lives, their hopes and dreams and women all gone. They sit in my room, taking advantage of the liquor and my ear, looking, begging and pleading for some empathy. Well sirs, I am incapable of that for whatever it is that has you down, well, I truly can give two shits about.

There are only three people that I will listen bitch about their lives and that is only because I care for them; Clinten, Danielle and drunks. They rest can just sit there and sulk for as long as they want, they will eventually get out of their rut as I have mine.

That doesn’t mean that the above three get a free pass to enter in and send a barrage of bitching and moaning my way.

Who am I kidding? These are my friends, of course they can. What I mean is I expect at least a little bit of tact, decency, and respect what little bit of feeling I have left. Besides if I wasn’t for them, I’m not I would have a lot to write about, a lot of stories to tell.

But it is like, take Danielle for instance, since she is the object of my affection at the moment. I listen to her going on and on about Adam and all the other boys she is going out and hooking up with, or at least, attempting to hook up with and she goes into great detail about the situations she finds herself, every finger’s movement, every ounce of moisture gathering below the belt, every inch of cock that is involved and for someone who cares so deeply for her and wants to spend the rest of my life with her, it is enough to make me puke up all this beer and cry myself to sleep at night. Except I don’t. No, I take a step back from it all and realize that I don’t feel that way even though my mind is telling me I should. I just accept it and come to terms that I am Crazy.

Yet, on the other foot, when it is mentioned that I have come to know a woman intimately (who am I kidding; when she finds out I fucked someone) she is unnerved by it all and I find her gathering distance. It’s only when I tell her how I truly feel that she seems to come around, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is with someone else, no matter how much she wants to deny it. It’s just the fact that her and I are going through the same exact thing, wanting someone who doesn’t want the other and it appears she refuses to acknowledge that fact when we speak. But I do ask, and if I was truly bothered by it all, I would talk to her. And shit, I know of a woman who feels exactly like Danielle and I do, and is tied into this as well for I string her along and crush her soul at the same time, I’m sure.

I’m actually getting sick of myself and now need a drink more than ever. I got this forensics exam tomorrow and then have to go out to the field for the rest of the month. Maybe in that time I will have another good story for you all, hell maybe in that time I will be over Danielle, or her over Adam or hell, her over me. Maybe I will even stop bitching to this keyboard and say something real for once. Or maybe I will just grab another beer and keep doing what I do.